


Maybe It Goes Like This

by agent85



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 2x22, Alternate Scene, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent85/pseuds/agent85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two alternate takes on the "Maybe there is" scene in 2x22—one in Jemma's point of view, the other in Fitz's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Comes Back

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by randomharvest: "What if Fitz came back to the locker room after Coulson interrupted them and he sees her crying and they hug it out and talk a little bit more. Because all I wanted was there to be a Fitzsimmons hug in the finale."

Somehow, he is exactly where she expects him to be.

It used to be that she would find him hunched over a lab bench or under a new prototype, but here he is, in the equipment locker. Things have changed so fast, and it's only now that she realizes that they're being swept up in a riptide. She doesn't know where they'll crash, so she has to act before he is swept away.

"You'll be careful."

It's a plea and a testimony all at once, but it doesn't stop him from packing his equipment. She stands frozen on the threshold, hands in fists and heart pounding.

"I won't be careful; I'll get the job done."

"Well," she warns, invading his space by instinct, "watch your back, because . . . I just saw Hunter with Bobbi, and it made me realize that . . ." She's realized so many things on the jog over here that words seem so small.  _I could lose you_ , she thinks, _I could lose you and you'd never know that I_ can't _lose you, ever._   "I . . ."  _I can't, I just can't._  "Wh- it's just that . . . we never spoke about . . . what you said to me at the bottom of the ocean."

The last words just tumble out of her, like water from a broken dam, like a secret set loose. This makes him stop, and when he turns to face her, she is naked and fully clothed, she is in plain sight and still hiding.

"This? Now?"

It's his exasperation and annoyance that breaks her heart.

"You want to talk about this now?"

"No!" She forces a laugh. "We, we don't . . ." And she doesn't. She wants him to know, but she doesn't want to say a word of it. If she wasn't backed into a corner, she'd run. "I—it means a lot to me that we're friends again, and I, um, maybe when you get back, we could finally, just, talk about it."

Those are the words, right? Isn't that what she's supposed to say? It doesn't matter if she's offering to say things she's still afraid to say to herself; she has to say _something._  

"It's—" He lets out a breath, and she's watching every motion, every expression, trying not to fall apart.

"There's nothing to discuss, Jemma."

She wants to laugh and cry all at once, because these are the words she's been telling herself for months—that silence is peace, that they need their space to heal, that there is no significance in the electricity she feels when his arm grazes hers. These are words that once gave her comfort, and now they exhaust her. She's tired of fighting him, of fighting herself. She's tired of the longing that should have been sated by the relationship they used to have. When he starts to leave, she reaches out because she needs his strength, and he needs her truth. If they keep bearing these burdens alone, they'll collapse under the weight.

He stops to look at her, and she's still at war with herself, leaking out tears as her smile brightens. He thinks he's loving her best by leaving her heart alone, and he is so very wrong.

"Maybe there is," she says, and she means exactly that, but also that she's been so blind, and now she is dazzled by the beauty of him. She means that he is standing right here, but he is too far away.

She fears he will never be close enough. 

His eyes open wide, and she is thrilled and terrified of the understanding behind them. She's never felt this weak, never known a helplessness as deep as this. She has laid everything bare, and she holds a breath as she waits to see what he'll do.

He steps forward, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, another voice overtakes him.

"Agent Fitz," calls Coulson, "we're on the move."

He doesn't look back at her, and she doesn't question it. The moment of truth has passed, and they must retreat to silence once again. As his footsteps grow fainter, she tries to bottle it all up, but the seal breaks easily. She takes in a gasp and lets it out with force, finally letting herself cry, finally allowing herself to feel it all. There's been a cosmic shift between them now, and she has to take a moment to let it seep in. 

She tells herself that even if he doesn't come back, he will have known, and that has to be better than it was before. It has to.

Her heart is pounding with such force that his footsteps approach in perfect camouflage, and his arms are wrapped around her before she understands that he's here. He holds her tight enough that now she won't burst, but it's not enough. She pulls him tighter until she barely has room to breathe.

"I have to go," he whispers, his lips hovering by her ear. "I have to go, Jemma."

"But you'll come back?"

The question springs from her lips unbidden, and she chides herself for being so needy, so childish. She's about to backpedal when she feels the chuckle rumbling in his chest.

"I tried to leave you once. Didn't get very far."

She pulls back to smile at him. "Just . . . just be careful, alright? So we can talk?"

It's the way he ducks his head that reminds her of the boy he used to be. The boy she's always loved. He scratches at his ear, and she knows he's trying to hide a blush from her.

It's only a few moments later when he puts a hand on each of her shoulders and kisses her on the forehead.

"I'll be careful," he says. 

Her hand finds his arm, but she doesn't pull him back this time. Instead, she lets her fingers slide along his sleeve as he walks away, letting their fingers tangle for a second before she feels the sting of his absence.

She stands there for a long moment, staring at the door, trusting that the forces that have kept them together thus far will continue to put them on the same path and the same destiny.

He'll come back to her.

She knows he will.


	2. They Have Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt by [NightJar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NightJar): "What if Coulson didn't interrupt them right at that moment?"

"You'll be careful."

He guesses he's not too surprised to see her in the doorway. He only catches a glimpse of her, but he knows she's worrying like a mother hen, and he's trying not to take it personally.

"I won't be careful," he replies. "I'll get the job done."

He focuses on the gear, because he can't handle this right now. She still sees him as weak, even as he's in the very act of suiting up to save the day. If he didn't have the need to be a hero, to be  _her_  hero, he's sure it wouldn't sting so much.

"Well, watch your back, because . . . I just saw Hunter with Bobbi, and it made me realize that . . ." He tries not to notice how she trails off, tries not to finish with  _we're still broken, I still can't trust you, we'll never be like that_. "I . . . Wh- it's just that . . . we never spoke about . . . what you said to me at the bottom of the ocean."

He freezes on the spot, because of all the things she could say, she has to pull a stunt like—

"This? Now? You want to talk about this now?"

He doesn't understand her red-rimmed eyes, doesn't understand why she left Bobbi just to come here and formally reject him. Her that-and-only-that feelings have been hanging over him like the sword of Damocles, but he was finally getting used to it, finally making peace with it. 

He's already sacrificed most of his heart just to be _this_  for her, and he doesn't know if he can let her take any more.

"No! We, we don't . . ." He goes back to his gear to distract himself from her stammering. "I—it means a lot to me that we're friends again, and I, um, maybe when you get back, we could finally, just, talk about it."

He turns back around, but he still doesn't have the strength to look at her. He gets it; he got it long before the ocean broke his brain, and she should already know that by now. How does she not know that by now?

"It's . . ." He pulls on the strap of his pack. "There's nothing to discuss, Jemma."

There, that should do it. The formal rejection has been graciously accepted, and hopefully he can now escape with some decency in tact. But as he tries to leave, he feels a hand keeping him there. He stumbles upon her wide, earnest eyes and he still doesn't understand.

"Maybe there is."

Time stops.

Only for a moment, only long enough for him to process her words and the smile she wraps them in. His eyes search hers, still finding them as mesmerizing as ever, but now realizing that she's studying him, too, that she's waiting for him to do . . . something.

He knows what he wants to do. He's always known.

He moves before she can tell him to stop, riding a tidal wave of pent-up emotion, but he approaches slowly enough that she really could stop him, if she wanted to. It's not until her face is in his hands and his lips crash against hers that he knows that  _this_  is what she wants.

The kiss is like a brand—short, but searing. It lasts just long enough to stamp her permanent mark on him. He'll never escape her now. He doesn't want to.

"Now?" he asks, brushing his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks and watching her entire countenance turn incandescent. "Why now?"

She gives him a shrug, but when she shakes her head, it's more like leaning into his touch. He waits for her answer, but he soon realizes that this is it. These are all the words she has. 

He gives her another kiss before wrapping her in his embrace, smiling as he feels her head against his shoulder and her arms around his middle. It happened. After all this time, it happened. And, maybe, his kiss left a mark, too.

They stand there for a moment, enjoying the honesty and the blissful silence, when the sound of footsteps haunt them from down the hall.

"Agent Fitz! We're on the move."

He doesn't want to pull away from her, not ever, but he has to, so he does. His eyes find hers, and they share a conversation words could never capture.

"Don't die out there," she finally says, and they both smile.

"I won't."

She gives him the strength to leave her, but he feels the imprint of her fingers as they trail down his arm, marking a path that, he hopes, she will find again soon. When she reaches his fingers, he squeezes her hand and lets it go, praying that she'll still want this when he gets back.

When he leaves, he knows he can conquer the world. 

He can, and will, do whatever it takes to get back to her.


End file.
